


Much to Learn

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Before you say they are 'like us', d'Artagnan, you should know that I would slaughter them in their sleep, if given the chance.  If they touch him, I will.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I asked asked for some prompts from SeeMeAsIAm101 and SupernaturalGeek and I started this long before the events of s02e05 (and the writers totally stole one of my ideas). But I'll choose to think of this fic as laying the ground for that episode. ;) This takes place between Season 1 and 2.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

 

* * *

Porthos was straining against the hands that held him and Aramis was shouting. D'Artagnan didn't grasp what was happening, but he understood the panic in Aramis' voice and the tension in Athos' face quite clearly. There was yelling, a mix of French and English, shoving and hitting until a pistol was held up to Aramis' head.

A silence fell over the hallway.

“Move. Or he dies,” muttered one of the man in accented French.

The fight left Porthos instantly. He nodded and allowed himself to be led further down the hallway. Away from them.

“Porthos.”

D'Artagnan winced, stuck by the anguish in Aramis' voice.

“I'll be alright,” called Porthos. “Nothin' I can't handle.”

The rest of them were shoved into a bare, middling sized room with small, high-set windows. The heavy door slammed behind them, followed by the sound of the lock.

“Where are they taking him?” asked d'Artagnan. No one answered. Aramis leaned against the wall, face hidden by unruly hair. “What just happened?”

“He'll be kept separately,” said Athos, his voice carefully neutral.

“But why?”

“Servants aren't held with soldiers.”

D'Artagnan blinked. Opened his mouth and shut it again before he found any words.

“They think...but why...?” he trailed off. “He's wearing a uniform.” D'Artagnan kicked at the door and raised his voice. “He's wearing a uniform!”

“It won't matter. It might make it worse.”

“Make it worse?!”

“You are a formidable fighter, d'Artagnan. And a good man.” Athos sat down wearily. “But you have much to learn of war.” D'Artagnan crouched and looked at Athos critically.

“This has happened before.”

“Despite what has transpired since you joined us, we are not often taken prisoner,” said Athos dryly.

“But?”

“You're not wrong. During the siege at La Rochelle, a number of French soldiers were taken prisoner. We did not...” Athos paused. “We were not all celled together, which did not seem that odd. The French army overran where we were being held and freed us. It was only then we realized Porthos was not amongst any of the soldiers. When we found him...”

“They'd beat him,” seethed Aramis, ending his silence suddenly. “They broke his arm. For daring to call himself a soldier. For denying he was a servant.”

The scene in the hallway, the anxiety and the tension.

Aramis' voice as the English dragged Porthos away.

It all suddenly made sense.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat.

“So what do we do? Wait for rescue?”

“Unless an opportunity for escape presents itself, I see no other option. There is always the chance for exchange,” said Athos.

“What, they'll trade us?”

“For English captives of equal rank, yes.”

Aramis made a pained sound and pushed away from the wall to pace the length of the room. D'Artagnan watched him for a moment and turned back to Athos.

“Of equal rank,” he repeated slowly. Worry twisted his gut. “What about servants?”

“More often than not, slaves and servants merely change masters.” Athos closed his eyes, voice soft and sad. “Or they're killed outright.”

“No.” The denial was out of d'Artagnan before he'd even realized he'd said it and stood. “No,” he calmly repeated, “the Captain will get us out of here, one way or another.”

Athos inclined his head slightly, but didn't open his eyes.

Aramis kept pacing, despair rolling off of him in waves.

“They wouldn't,” said d'Artagnan reasonably after several quiet minutes. “They're soldiers, like us. Surely they wouldn't just kill him like that.”

Aramis approached d'Artagnan in the gathering darkness.

“You've seen the way people look at him. No one in the regiment, at least, not anymore,” Aramis' voice was low and lethal. “Rarely at court. But in some places?” He shook his head and stared at d'Artagnan, his voice a razored whisper. “Porthos is kind. Selfless. The bravest man and the best friend I have ever known. That these English would dare think him _less_? Because he looks or lived differently than them? That they would treat him with so little honor? Deny the station he has fought so hard to achieve? Before you say they are 'like us', D'Artagnan, you should know that I would slaughter them in their sleep, if given the chance.” Aramis turned to lean against the wall again. “And if they touch him, I will. Pray that they are more like you than me.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

The hallway seemed endless. Aramis ran as fast as he could, shouting and listening for any sound from his friend.

There was sobbing coming from behind the last door. Heartbroken weeping, the likes that Aramis had never heard from Porthos.

Aramis kicked and kicked and kicked until finally the door gave way and the sobbing stopped. The stink of sweat and blood and unwashed bodies rolled out of the tiny room.

“Porthos!” Aramis knelt next to the big man and rolled him gently to his back. Porthos' face was bruised and swollen nearly to be unrecognizable. “Porthos, we are freed.” Aramis searched for wounds, wincing as the bones in Porthos' arm grated under his hands. “Can you move? We need to go. They're on the run, but I don't know how long we have.”

When there was no answer, Aramis carefully palmed Porthos' cheek. The skin was cold and strangely stiff.

He snatched his hand back in horror at the wrongness of it. He rested his ear on Porthos' chest and waited but found only silence and stillness.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. The crying had started again, echoing through the room, rebounding around him.

“Nononono,” he murmured, seizing Porthos by the doublet. Though he was rigid and heavy, Aramis hauled him into his lap, tears soaking the soft, black curls as he pressed his face into Porthos' hair.

The torches dimmed and the weeping grew deafening.

Sorrow was a crushing weight.

As the darkness became absolute, Aramis realized the sobbing came from him.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis jerked awake, gasping for breath. He searched the room frantically.

D'Artagnan slept against the far wall and Athos sat in the cool glow of the moon, watching him.

He ran an unsteady hand over his face and then through his hair.

Nightmare.

Aramis got up to sit next to Athos and looked up at the light that came from the high windows and the nearly full moon. His heart had finally stopped pounding when Athos spoke softly.

“Bad dream?”

“It was La Rochelle again. That tiny room, that stench...but this time...” Aramis shuddered and pretended not to notice when Athos pressed closer, their arms touching. “I was too late, he was already dead.”

They both resumed their contemplation of the moon.

“Never again,” Athos whispered finally. “I swore I'd never let something like this happen to him again.”

“And how were you do keep that vow, Athos? In a world such as this and a life such as ours? What could you do? What could either of us do?”

“Death in battle, honorable and earned is one thing. But this...”

“I know.” Aramis leaned into Athos' shoulder. “I know.”

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, late-night, drunken rambling with redtigress is motivating.  
> Who knew?
> 
>  
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

 

Time as a prisoner was slow and incredibly tedious.

Athos wished that Porthos was there. For so many reasons, but the man probably had a deck of cards shoved in a boot. He was bored enough, he'd probably agree to any game that was offered.

The sounds of battle could be heard in the distance. Aramis had an ear for weaponry and spent some time narrating the types of armaments and their movements. But the guns fell silent around midday and so did Aramis. He worried at his crucifix and stared into space.

Porthos would have been able to keep him out of his dark thoughts. But Porthos wasn't here and Athos was a poor substitute for distraction.

D'Artagnan seemed to be trying to tunnel through the floor with the sheer force of his pacing and Athos didn't have the heart to tell him to stop.

It was late in the evening of the second day, when the door opened to admit a man who called for Athos.

Athos accepted the paper the man offered.

“It's from Treville,” he read aloud, mildly surprised. “We are to be exchanged tomorrow, by a Major Bickley, at noon as part of a truce.” D'Artagnan let out a slow breath, hands on his hips. Aramis took the letter, scanning it quickly.

“It says that all soldiers are to be released and offer no violence. The English are withdrawing, immediately following exchange.”

“All soldiers. That means, _all_ of us? Right?” D'Artagnan looked at Athos with dark, pleading eyes. No wonder the nickname 'pup' was tossed about by some.

“Those are the terms,” answered Athos. “The Captain will see them honored.”

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

They were led outside, their swords and pistols handed back to them under wary eyes.

Athos scanned the men assembling. A small contingent of English soldiers stood ready to escort them, but the rest were clearly readying to abandon the manor they'd appropriated as an outpost.

There was no sign of Porthos.

“Where is the other man? The one who was with us?” When no one answered his questions in French, he tried them again in English.

The Englishmen traded looks, but that was all.

“You are making a mistake,” he warned quietly.

“Move,” growled one of the men, gesturing across the wide open field. Over two hundred yards away, others were approaching, presumably their French comrades.

“We're not leaving,” said d'Artagnan hotly. “Not without Porthos.”

“Treville will take care of it. But we must follow the rules of the cease-fire. No violence.”

“I can't...” Aramis shook his head roughly.

“You can and you will,” snapped Athos, inches from Aramis. “I understand,” he said, softening his voice, “but we won't get him back like this. Let the Captain handle it.”

“If we could please proceed,” called an English officer, riding up to the front of the group. “I have assurances you won't cause any trouble.”

Aramis glanced from Athos to the man, presumably the Major Bickley, and nodded. Athos squeezed Aramis' arm and looked at the Englishman.

“We are quite ready.”

Bickley set his horse at a walk without a word. Athos followed behind on foot, Aramis and d'Artagnan at his heels.

It was not a long distance, but Athos felt every step of it. They took him further from Porthos.

As the French and English forces met, Major Bickley called out a greeting and was met by Captain Treville. The two commanders exchanged a few words and then motioned for the exchange. Soldiers quickly crossed to their respective sides.

“Captain,” said Athos as calmly as he could manage. “They still have Porthos.”

A hawk's eye could not have been sharper as Treville glanced over them all, noting each face and turned back to Bickley.

“You're still holding one of my men.”

“My lieutenant is quite certain that all your soldiers are here and accounted for.”

“You are mistaken. There is another, tall and dark skinned.” Bickley tilted his head, perplexed. A man murmured something in his ear.

“You can't mean the servant? They are not part of our exchange.”

D'Artagnan would have been at the man's throat if Athos had not seized his shoulder and the snarl that ripped out of Aramis was positively feral.

“That man,” said Treville, as darkly as Athos had ever heard him, “is one of the King's personal guard. You will bring him out, unharmed, or you will find the elements of this cease-fire will change. Rapidly.”

Bickley had the decency to look chagrined.

“I will rectify this at once, Captain, you have my word. However, I will remind you of the terms. Your men cannot move past this line.”

“Terms.” Treville's lip twisted and he bared his teeth. “Terms you have failed to uphold.”

“A mistake, I assure you, and one I will fix. But if I see any French move closer to our encampment, we will be forced to take measures.”

“Then fix it. Now.”

Bickley wheeled his horse around back the way they had come, his men following as quickly as they could.

“Where is he?” demanded Treville.

“We were held separately,” answered Athos. “We haven't seen him since we were taken.”

The sun shone and the wind played through the tall grasses and they watched and they waited.

Finally, a single, unmistakable figure set out across the field.

“They're sending him alone,” mused Athos.

“They made a potentially costly transgression,” said Treville. “Rather than face ramifications or lose face, they're going to keep their distance and hope we won't retaliate.”

“And yet Bickley made his point about us going any closer,” hissed d'Artagnan. “Coward.”

They watched as Porthos made his way toward them.

“Something's wrong,” said Aramis softly. Even at the distance of a hundred yards, Athos couldn't disagree. Porthos was swaying, steps faltering. When the big man stumbled and fell, Aramis took a step forward.

Athos placed a warning hand on his arm.

If the walk had felt long before, it was nothing compared to the torture it was now.

Slowly, painfully, Porthos drew closer and Athos could better see the exhausted slope of his shoulders. The way he was clearly favoring his left leg.

When Porthos fell again, Aramis would have bolted if not for Athos' firm grip.

“Aramis...”

“Look at him!” cried Aramis, flinging an arm toward Porthos. He lowered his voice to an imploring whisper. “Athos, look at him.”

Athos did. He looked at the broad form of his friend, bowed and struggling to rise, alone. He was too far, but he was so close.

Athos felt Aramis trembling beneath his fingers.

He slid his eyes toward the Captain.

Treville gave the smallest of nods.

Athos shot a look at d'Artagnan.

“You stay here.”

And then he and Aramis were sprinting toward Porthos.

Athos waited for the bark of muskets or the roar of a cannon, but the only sounds were brushing grass and their own harsh breathing.

Porthos was on his feet again, slowly helping close the distance between them.

Aramis reached Porthos first, one hand going to his shoulder, the other moving to touch his face.

“Are you alright?” Porthos gave a smile that twisted into a grimace.

“Yeah, knee's banged up, that's all.”

“What happened,” asked Athos.

Porthos shifted his weight, accepting the support Aramis offered.

“They told me to kneel,” answered Porthos tightly. “I wasn't too keen to the idea, so they helped me along.”

Anger flared like flame set to powder and for a moment Athos couldn't breathe. He willed it down and placed himself under Porthos' other arm until Porthos was braced firmly between himself and Aramis.

“Let us go,” he said gruffly. “Before they decide to start shooting.”

The walk was filled with pained growls and gentle encouragements and it felt like hours.

D'Artagnan was twitching, but he held his place as they finally limped up to the line of the French regiment. Treville nodded at them, approving and exasperated all at once.

“Get him on my horse and back to camp.”

“'M alright, Captain.” Treville raised an eyebrow and Athos felt Porthos try to stand straighter. He squeezed Porthos wrist firmly.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Don't be stubborn.” Porthos glared at him, but relaxed. Athos motioned to d'Artagnan and the Gascon slid easily into his place next to Porthos and helped Aramis guide him away. Athos stood shoulder to shoulder with Treville and waited.

“What happened?”

“They told him to kneel. He objected.”

“I'm sure he did,” murmured Treville. “They violated the terms of the truce,” continued the older man after a moment, squinting into the distance. “I am within my rights to attack them.”

“You are,” agreed Athos.

And part of Athos wanted it. Wanted to give an outlet to the simmering rage in his gut. To take retribution for the harm they had caused Porthos solely because he was different.

Athos was sick to death of politics and power struggles. The world was a tribulation. Being a soldier wasn't simpler, but it made more sense than anything else he'd tried.

“No more blood today,” said Treville finally and gave the order for everyone to return to camp. “Another time.”

“I thought the English were withdrawing?” Treville studied him for a long moment and Athos saw his own anger and helplessness mirrored in the Captain's eyes before he turned away.

“It doesn't end. There will always be another time, Athos.”

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos hummed in discomfort as Aramis palpated his knee. The skin was tight and bruised, but the damage did not appear permanent.

“It seems intact. Just sprained, I think.” Aramis wrapped the swollen joint in clothes soaked in cool water to ease the swelling. Porthos ran a hand through his hair and sighed roughly.

“That's good.”

Aramis settled on the small stool next to the pallet where Porthos was propped. He looked tired, but it was more than that. Shadows Aramis hadn't seen since in months danced through Porthos' eyes. Not since Bonnaire, Charon, and the last time the world had slapped him in the face with his past.

“Anything else? Did you fight them?”

“Nah. Couldn't take the chance they'd do something to you. Or the others.”

“You protect us,” mused Aramis sadly. Porthos frowned.

“O'course I do.”

“No, no, I mean...” Aramis rubbed at the back of his neck. “From much more than swords and musket balls. Our mistakes, our pains, our vices, the demons we can't even name. You protect us.”

“I try,” agreed Porthos slowly.

“I can't do that for you!” blurted Aramis. “I can't stop their way of thinking, their prejudices. I can't protect you from their hate, Porthos.”

Porthos studied him, brow still furrowed.

“That's not true. What you do...s'good enough.”

“It's not!”

“It is for me. Aramis, some things can be changed and some can't. I _know_ what I am. I don't need protectin' from that.” Porthos leaned forward to look at Aramis squarely. “What I need is a home and a family, and I have 'em with the Musketeers. Every time you call me brother, you shelter me. You shore me up. Maybe it seems small to you, but it's something powerful to me.”

Porthos settled back and shifted uncomfortably.

“I know it's not always easy. People talk 'bout you just for bein' around me.”

Porthos fell quiet and fiddled with the cloth around his leg. Aramis didn't even know how to begin, how to thank Porthos for being his sanity, how to tell him he was worth _so much more_ than he believed.

He reached out and gently laid a hand over Porthos' nervous fingers until the big man looked up.

“You're wrong. I don't know if anything in my life has ever been as easy as being your friend.”

Porthos looked at Aramis with such open gratitude that it hurt, but it was quickly gone, hidden beneath an easy grin.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

D'Artagnan neared the tent with the bread and wine he'd been sent to acquire. Porthos hadn't said it, but he got the impression the man hadn't eaten since they'd been captured.

The thought sent his heart racing.

Athos stood outside the tent. Waiting, it seemed, for him. He looked at d'Artagnan with cool, green eyes and he knew.

“The Captain is going to let them go.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Athos looked at him sharply, but d'Artagnan wouldn't look away.

“No more blood, he said.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” answered Athos precisely, “that today could have gone very differently. Men could still be fighting and dying. We could still be prisoners. Porthos could have been a corpse they dumped as they fled.” The older man looked in the tent at Aramis and Porthos and the steel in his voice melted. “Instead, we have Porthos. They are retreating back to England and the fighting here is at an end. This is an unusually good day, as war goes.” Athos clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder before stepping into the tent. “Take the rest when you can, d'Artagnan.”

D'Artagnan watched Athos crouch down next to Porthos and wondered at the way the three of them steadied when they were together.

Rest did not seem like such a bad idea and d'Artagnan moved to join them.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr. I'm not very good at it. But I'm trying.


End file.
